


Skycutter

by taichara



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet Collection, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:26:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2026752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cataclysm has struck down both sides of the war, with unexpected results.  A handful of Autobot survivors, aboard a virtual antique of a ship and the asteroid it's attached to, need to sort themselves out and work out their priorities.</p><p>This is a collection of six ficlets focusing on the "crew" of the derelict ship Skycutter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Decisions Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Springer, Prowl, and the realities of decentralized command, the problems when someone doesn't like the commander ... and when someone else doesn't want to confront the problem.

"I know I'm not your first and probably your last -- except for Ricochet -- choice right now, Prowl, but we need to talk."

Prowl no more looked up at the sound of Springer's voice than he had at his heavy-footed approach. His attention was instead on a flickering array of readouts, sweeping, scrolling past on the antiquated holoscreen propped in front of him; the thing was spewing data so fast it made Springer's head ache just to think of trying to absorb it all. And yet Prowl was doing exactly that, taking steady notation of some kind or another on a dataslate without missing a beat. 

Neither did he stop writing now, shrugging a false-wing towards an empty seat nearby.

"If you can tell me what you need to tell me without distracting me, tell me. I'm listening."

"It's about Drift --"

The soft snort that escaped was equal parts amused and just slightly scornful.

"What about him? We've discussed this already, Springer. The choice was never and could never be in our hands. Just as well; we would have chosen poorly.  
"Who would they have preferred carry the Matrix? You? Myself?"

A fey little smile danced across Prowl's bland mask. 

"How unlikely would you call either of those choices? I can give you an analysis, if you like, to hammer into Ricochet's head -- I'm already aware that he's part of the problem, after all, as much as or more than Red Aler--"

"Yeah. Exactly. He's part of the problem and _you_ haven't done a damn thing about it."

The stylus stilled for just a moment, the only outward sign of Prowl's sudden spike of tension. Springer felt just a twinge of guilt for the barb, but found himself overridden before he could even decide if he'd do anything about it -- Prowl had set his slate aside, was now leaning across the battered crating that was his 'desk', hands folded, expression carefully controlled.

"Springer, it is no longer my place nor my concern. My concern is formulating some means, however short the odds, to assure our continued survival; I do not lead us. Let me repeat that: _I do not lead_.  
"As former Wrecker Command you have the wartime rank to keep one surly sniper in line if Drift continues to refuse to take the issue up himself, which -- given the circumstances -- I would wholly understand if he has not."

The fey smile returned.

"Though I suppose casting Ricochet as a potential danger to Mirage may light a spark in him, it would be counterproductive in the long run and cause more trouble than any of us need. And --"

\-- the smile turned faintly pained --

"-- it would be no help for Bluestreak in the long run, either."

Prowl fell silent, and Springer winced.

_Circles in circles, like always. I can't decide if the webs here are a good thing or if it's a miracle we aren't killing each other already. Damnit._

The makeshift chair left a squall of rust across the flooring as Springer heaved himself to his feet. He tosses Prowl a mocking salute -- drawing an unimpressed glower -- and started towards the outer corridor of the Skycutter.

"Fine, fine. I'll knock some sense into him and I won't even send him into a fit this time, swear on my creator's spark. Anything else?"

There was a brief pause.

"... Yes. There is, actually, something else."

"Well, spit it out already."

A sudden explosion of air from his intakes underscored Springer's equally sudden exasperation. Prowl ignored the outburst; having turned back to his work, Springer couldn't see his face.

But when he spoke ...

"Tell him that it's not because of him that I've stayed away. And that I apologize."


	2. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all of Sideswipe's antics result in castastrophe --

In crisis conditions, the Autobots could generally assume that Sideswipe would start bouncing off the walls -- metaphorically or otherwise -- as soon as boredom set in. This was of course about the same time that tension began to get the better of anyone who happened to suffer from more easily frayed sensibilities. He did, in fact, have a sixth sense for that sort of thing.

But this was different. This wasn't battle siege boredom; this was less than a dozen of them -- maybe everyone else was obliterated; it would explain a lot! -- holed up in some battered antique cruiser that had plowered itself ungracefully into some dumb space rock.

This was an ex-Con ex-cultist-or-something that talked to his sword carrying the Matrix instead of just playing nice bodyguard. This was his buddy's kind-of-special-someone maybe-probably dying bit by bit.

This called for a special approach. Oh yes.

Which was exactly why Sideswipe -- grinning like a turbofox on rev -- came sashaying into the middle of the 'daily' group huddle meeting balancing two trays. Two trays piled up high with the glistening sticky crystally glory that was his very special treat, promptly deposited smack in the middle of the tabletop.

Mirage broke the silence first, though not without a long glance first at the trays, then Sideswipe's gleeful face, then back towards the table before giving himself a delicate little shake and fixing his attention on the beaming crimson warrior.

"Sideswipe."

"Yes ~?"

"These are Iaconian galenic wafers."

"That they are! C'mon, c'mon guys, don't just stare at 'em, they'll get all brittle and separate. I had to sneak off three times to get these ready for you, y'know, and I'm still smarting from the fallout of sneak number three, thanks Red by the way!"

Before Springer (or anyone else) could make a grab for him, Red Alert was off his seat -- toppling it over -- and trying to shake Sideswipe by his chestplate, an attempt Sideswipe answered by patting Red's head consolingly before prying him off.

"I know, I know, Red, 'necessary supplies' and 'you might poison us all' and blah blah blah. Whatever. I brought most of it with me and trust me, I'm good at these. They take a lot of pounding and stuff ~"

"I think it's a great surprise, Sideswipe. Thank you, from all of us."

Drift's voice caught on the last few words, still uneasy with speaking for anyone but himself. But he matched deed to word in the same motion, selecting a wafer and nibbling first curiously (having never experienced the things before) and then with every sign of enjoyment.

The dam of tension broke; all hands were after the treats, even Red.

And Sideswipe continued to grin. 

Unexpected stunts that were good stunts could be the best stunts.


	3. The Here And Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just need to hang onto what and who you have with both hands.

"You don't have to stay here. Go find something else to do, you don't have to --"

"I _want_ to."

Same old contrariness; same old protests. Same old Ricochet. Not that Bluestreak cared one whit more about any of that than he did ages back, he didn't and still didn't mind Ricochet's irritable moodswings --

_Because it's just how you know to deal with it, I know._

_Just like how I need to deal with -- how I need to deal. And it's just worse when things're bad, and second watch was definitely bad._

Bad enough that the trifecta of Springer, Drift and Perceptor had quickly conferred -- and pulled Ricochet from anything resembling what they were calling active duty. Ricochet has argued loudly and angrily, to no avail, and now he was bitterly swearing under his breath every half-picocycle. But the replacement firearms stock -- needing painstaking assembly, after being dredged up from stores found somewhere in the Skycutter's guts -- grew steadily under his precise and knowing hands.

The rotary table turned once, shifting the collection of modules. Ricochet made an aggravated noise, set down the compents he'd been working on, and picked up a new 'project' as Bluestreak did the same. Two seats around the rotary from the pair Mirage was following suit, humming some old tune to himself as he tested the shaft of a precision scope; Bluestreak clamped down hard on the questions just begging to be asked.

_Why's Mirage here? I mean sure it could just be putting all of us snipers and gunnery-types in one spot to, well, work on the guns -- extra eyes on the production line, I guess? -- but it feels weird._

_He looks okay. Then again, so does Ricochet and we both know ... nope, not thinking about that right now._

_Maybe Drift's getting weird. Well, weirder. Maybe Red's rubbing off on him. He was Mirage's bodyguard before all the stuff happened, maybe this's his way of still trying to do his job ... ooop!_

"Pay attention, Bluestreak, you nearly soldered your own fingers."

Concern, under the hoarse growl, and Bluestreak didn't bother to hide the pleased little flick of his false-wings. He knew; Ricochet knew. It was enough being together for now.


	4. Hope Is Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... And sometimes, hanging on is all you can do.

_Primus damnit \--!_

Ricochet sank to his knees, his world a screaming haze of feedback and raw agony, before staggering back to his feet to throw a wild punch in Perceptor's vague general direction. A punch that flew wide as his optical relays shut themselves abruptly down mid-swing.

Fear overtook anger and he sank again, frantically cycling air, his head in his hands.

_Damnit, damnit, damnit ..._

_If something doesn't work soon I'll ... he'll ..._

"I am shutting down your pain sensorium now, Ricochet. Please hold as still as you can."

Perceptor's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, heavy as lead, as careful as if he were collecting a shard of mica, keeping him immobile; and Ricochet could feel his remaining energy seeping away along with the agony as the scientist bent to his work within his exposed middle torso. There was the sensation of cables decoupling (and not the good kind) and some bit of himself (but could he call that 'himself' if it didn't work?) being gently lifted away ...

_Primus rot it all! The way I'm rotting --_

"Ricochet?"

The placid voice somehow cut through his inner ranting like a vibroblade. Perceptor was looking at him directly; he realized with a start that his vision had returned.

_There's that at least, I guess. 'Good sign', right?_

"Yeah?"

A little sigh, a regretful look.

"We will try again, once enough time has passed for your recovery. I will reconnect the support systems, with your permission?"

_How long before I'm tied to some hulk bigger than I am?_

"Fine. Do it. Not really any choice in the matter anyway."

And he'd have to tell Bluestreak. He hated telling Bluestreak.

_Maybe next time, it'll ..._


	5. Fluttering Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you need to talk, even the most improbable of ears are welcome. Drift's been learning that the hard way -- and he's decided to stop trying to say no.

Finally, a moment's peace. Not that he faulted the others for it, no; it was only natural that they looked to him as leader -- however unwilling some of them may be -- after the Matrix had been passed to him --

_\-- thrust on me, more like! --_

\-- by a bleeding, possibly dying Prime as the world burned around them all. And he was trying to be what they wanted -- what they needed -- but it was hard. As hard as it was to walk away from the killing life, to walk away from the Circle and their stony refuge. So he took moments when he could, now. Prowl was occupied with Red Alert and Perceptor; Springer was sparring with Sideswipe; the others all had their own quiet distractions.

And Mirage, still as a slender statue, slumbered dreamlessly (he hoped) on the charging bed across the cramped chamber.

_Good._

With practiced ease Drift slid into a comfortable posture, half-kneeling; in the same motion he drew the soul-blade from his back before its point struck the dingy tiles and brought it forward. The soft glow of the sword's spirit stone matched that of the ancient relic nestled deep inside, matched his own spark.

And, perhaps, one other thing.

Silently he bowed his head, closed his eyes, felt the cool radiance on his brow as he brought the blade to rest against his face.

This time he'd barely begun his silent recitals when

_: You know, I'd hoped that you were healing when you joined us in truth, Drift. If recent days are any indication, you're undoing all our good work with you. :_

_... It's not that. I --_

_: You're still not sure this is really me, and not some sign that you've lost all grip on sanity. :_

Well, that swift tang of wry amusement certainly _felt_ like Wing.

_I ..._

_: I'm waiting. :_

_... I can't decide if I want you to be you, or if I want you to be some final hallucination. Yes.  
I'll admit it, because I'll never lie to you again._

_: Tell me why you'd want me to not be real, then. That's decided strange. :_

Drift hesitated, looking for the words, even though he suspected that words weren't really needed. He needed, at least, to gather his wits -- and his resolve.

_... I miss you. Forever. But I don't want to think of you as trapped._

_: Trapped? In the Great Blade? :_

A crackle across his awareness, laughter like white lightning.

_: No, it's not that. I'm only, let's say, taking shameless advantage of a unique conjunction. :  
: So we can talk, at least, and I can do something about that crushing guilt of yours. :_

_But you died \--_

_: "Because of me"? That's what you're going to say, I'd stake Dai's annoyance on it. :_  
_: No, Drift, student-brother, my poor lost soul, I died because I chose to. I chose, knowing that choosing freedom would likely mean my death, to set myself free. To set us all free. :_  
_: Maybe it was a rash decision, but in the end, here we are. :_

_... Dai Atlas opened up the Circle after your death, you know._

_: There, you see? :_  
_: So tell me about the dancer in blue and white who occupies your mind -- :_

_Wing --!_

So much like him ... It was so very much like him. And oh, how much Drift wanted -- once, just this once -- to let everything out. Just ... Wing would listen. Wing always did.

Did he dare to listen to, to confide in, a phantom?

It was his choice. Even if ...

_His name is Mirage, and ..._


	6. Written In Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More emotional -- and more devious -- is Springer than the rest of the crew ever suspected ~

_If any of this gets back to anyone, the whole damn army's going to have a field day._

_Oh well. It's not like I've ever worried about rep before.  
Well, not this kind anyway._

In fact, so Springer thought (with a certain amount of right wicked glee), he'd flat out enjoy seeing the looks on any assembled faces when and if his steadily growing files of letters were ever unearthed.

Preferably by no one actually involved in the Skycutter debacle, of course. It'd kind of defeat the whole point.

_I'm going to see them even if I have to turn into some kind of spook -- ___

__They really were quite lengthy and epically wordy letters, the kind no one would ever suspect Springer -- broad of shoulder, wrecks with the best, out of depth anywhere else Springer -- of ever writing. That length was what kept the Wreckers machine well-oiled and functional, though; they all wrote near-novels to each other. It kept them grounded, kept them sane._ _

___'Hope we get a chance to fire off cathode rockets at passing bogies some time soon, Me' ... and that's Broadside._ _ _

___Now for the last one this midcycle._ _ _

__Because there was a _second_ batch of letters, oh yes. These were less personal, but still dripping with more personal little things than all the ones in the other batch combined, and they weren't going to any Wrecker._ _

__No, these were for Jazz. And they contained every little hint, every observation, every last witnessed-while-the-mask-was-slipped little word and deed that escaped a certain fellow exile, because Prowl would probably never manage to let it all go long enough to just out and say it himself. Might not even have the chance._ _

__He owed them both no less for all they'd done together over the long, long war._ _


End file.
